He stumbled forward, as if using the touch of his body to personally "read" the darkness.
The upward slope of the cavern gave Aegon a sliver of hope.
At least the direction was clear.
The air was still cold, but the heavy, stagnant feeling—a mix of blood and decay accumulated at the bottom—was receding.
After another upward climb, the texture beneath his feet changed.
It was no longer rough natural rock or holes drilled by creatures, but flat, regular stone slabs.
He had entered a passage that was clearly man-made.
He held up the makeshift torch—a dry strip of cloth torn from his clothes and lit—to get a closer look.
The walls were the familiar dark dragonstone, polished smooth. Even after being covered in dust for a millennium, he could still feel the precision of the ancient craftsmanship.
This must be the underground section of that magnificent castle ruin, perhaps a cellar, or a passage connecting different areas.
Silence.
There was only his own suppressed breathing, the sound of his staff, and the faint clang of his longsword occasionally tapping the ground.
The dust on the ground was thick, leaving behind chaotic footprints, some fresh, some old.
Several dark red, not yet fully congealed bloodstains intermittently pointed deeper, like road signs.
It seemed that more than one person had woken up before him and found this path, and someone was injured, or... dragging someone else's blood.
There were few forks in the passage, and he strictly followed the direction guided by the System.
The golden light spot was getting closer, but this approach did not bring comfort; instead, it made his heart beat faster.
Where exactly were the "them" that the warning said were "close at hand"?
Turning a corner, the space opened up slightly, resembling the entrance to a small antechamber or storage room.
Beside the pile of decaying debris in the corner, whose original appearance was unrecognizable, Aegon saw a skeleton.
It was different from the scattered dry bones he had seen along the way.
It was relatively intact, wearing clothing that, although old and tattered, still vaguely showed signs of former nobility, sitting in a posture leaning against the wall.
What caught Aegon's attention was the emblem embroidered with silver thread on the chest of the clothing, now severely oxidized and blackened: a ferocious dragon head holding a twisted, many-limbed sea monster in its mouth.
The crest of House Torregar that he had seen earlier on the murals.
Aegon's pupils constricted slightly.
A Torregar clansman had died deep beneath the ruins of his own family.
He carefully raised the torch and approached.
The flickering firelight illuminated the long-dried facial skin and hollow eye sockets.
The moment the light of the flame reflected off the skull's hollow eyes—
Coldness.
It did not come from the subterranean chill, but a familiar, icy shudder that exploded directly from the depths of his soul.
His vision instantly blurred and detached.
Fragments of the Death Echo sharply pierced his consciousness.
...Ruckus.
No, it was the ultimate wailing and crying of countless people merged together in despair.
The thick, viscous smell of blood was overwhelming, mixed with sulfur and char.
The perspective was somewhat low.
Shaking, running, like a child who had secretly snuck out without telling an elder and arrived at a forbidden place.
In his vision.
Someone was wearing a luxurious robe embroidered with the sea monster and giant dragon emblem; their silver hair was particularly striking.
They held an ancient scroll in their hand, their fingertips white from the force of their grip.
His sight passed through a tall, gloomy corridor. On both sides were bottomless circular cages, where dense figures crowded the bars, stretching out countless arms, like tormented souls struggling in hell.
Crying, pleading, cursing.
"For the glory of Torregar!" someone shouted in the distance, their voice fanatical and trembling.
"Mama... Mama..." a faint, tender cry pierced the noise.
His gaze inadvertently swept past a cage nearby, where a young mother, her face covered in grime, tightly hugged her infant, futilely shrinking into the corner, trying to block the child's view of the terrifying scene outside with her body.
The child's small hand desperately clutched the mother's tattered garment.
The movement did not stop.
It didn't even slow down for a moment.
In his heart, there were only the ancient words recorded on the scroll, only a near-maniacal desire to "Awaken the Progenitor."
Those cries... were merely necessary harmony.
They were kindling.
His vision reached the edge of a massive circular altar.
Below was a churning, dark red blood pool, bubbling and gurgling, where potent life essence and death resentment boiled and intertwined.
In the center of the pool, a massive shadow slowly rose and fell.
As the figure on the high platform waved his hand... the sacrifice began.
There were armored soldiers, and commoners driven in from the other side... lining up, being pushed onto the platform, their throats slit, and their blood drained.
Warm life transformed into streams, flowing into the pool.
The mother and infant were also roughly dragged over. The mother screamed hoarsely, pressing the child tightly against her chest.
The executioner frowned, seemingly annoyed by her interference, snatched the child and threw it aside, then swiftly slit the woman's throat.
Blood splattered.
The child fell onto the ground, watching blankly as his mother convulsed and collapsed, watching the red spread over and wet his small hand.
He was stunned, forgetting even how to cry.
The executioner reached out to grab the child... just then—
The ground beneath their feet began to shake violently, without warning! Ten, perhaps a hundred times more intense than any previous volcanic unrest!
The firmament seemed to roar, and terrifying, continuous sounds of mountains collapsing and earth splitting echoed from afar.
It was the Fourteen Fire Peaks!
They weren't erupting, they were... exploding!
Perhaps the gods were enraged by this crime and were delivering divine punishment.
"The Doom! It's The Doom!" The fanaticism transformed into boundless terror.
The crowd went completely mad, trampling one another.
Even the soldiers maintaining order dropped their weapons.
The blood pool boiled violently, as if whatever was beneath it had been startled and enraged by the sudden cataclysm.
The shadow in the pool twisted frantically, letting out a silent roar.
Immense waves of malevolent and hungry intent, mixed with the residual souls of countless newly sacrificed victims, swept out like an uncontrolled storm!
"No—! The ritual is not complete!" The silver-haired man on the high platform roared unwillingly, trying to approach the blood pool to finish the final step.
But it was too late.
The departed souls, forcibly gathered but losing guidance due to the ritual's interruption, were enveloped by the residual tyrannical will of the Progenitor Dragon, forming a terrifying entity.
The first ones they lunged at were the people by the altar wearing the Torregar crest—the "Chief Sacrificers"!
"Why... we are your..." Before the figure on the high platform could finish his words, the icy, invisible sea of spirits swallowed him.
His vision shook and spun, as if being dragged away from this hell.
The last thing his perspective saw were countless twisted faces full of bitter hatred, and the infant lying in the pool of blood with empty eyes... a child of similar age but with a vastly different fate...
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